An Eye For Danger (book 1)

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Troy jumped the stairs three at a time and was nearly upon us. A gun nosed out of his cuff, as my fingers laced around Sam’s Glock in my waistband.

One, two, three, and Troy landed on the stairs below me. The radio in his other hand told me he was aiming for the kitchen, where I’d left Stone's unit broadcasting the breakfast chaos.

The herd recovered, drove upward, and led me into the main building. I followed a small crew that split off, which passed ostentatious ballrooms and through gold-sheathed corridors as wide as my apartment.

At the Bull and Bear restaurant, I severed and ducked into a room that felt like an upscale man cave: solid mahogany beams, leather broad-back chairs, wooded whiskey in the air. Antique beveled glass walls enabled me to watch for Troy’s unmistakable mass.

I stepped behind the famous curved mahogany bar and into a storage room. And startled a man dressed in the same uniform as mine.

With quick hands he caught a box of bottles just below his knees, saving thousands of liquid dollars from shattering onto the cement floor. “What the fuck.” He grunted and lowered the box. A second look at me and the corners of his mouth curled. “You better be one of the new bartenders so I can fire you.”

Brandishing the iPod, I said, “Hope first day is lady’s choice.”

***

“Lost” played over the music system as I used a rough towel to rub the bar to a mirror glaze. An oversize clock face with Roman numerals hung on the far wall. I’d given Sam five minutes till I disappeared, and three were gone.

A businessman poked his head into the room, pushed through the doors with narrowing strides. His dark glasses and low-slung cap looked acceptable in a place qualified for treating morning hangovers. Beneath his gray overcoat and scarf was a tailor-fit suit in silvery blue, fitting for the rat-pack room and giving him the right mix of authority and grace as he took a seat at the bar, one foot on the floor, both eyes on the entrance. His subtle head turn told me he’d scanned the room. A gold bracelet shimmered in the low light as he tapped his fingers to the song. I could tell Sam was mouthing the words.

I watched him from the storage room a moment, doubting my decision.

“On three.” I flipped over a shot glass on the bar, halting his dancing fingers, and poured a shot. My eyes fixed on his empty ring finger. “I always wonder about men who remove their wedding bands when they frequent bars.”

“Can’t wear whatcha don’t got.”

He slid his fingers across the bar, groping for my hand. His chest heaved as he gripped my fingers, and I threw a bar towel over our locked hands, conscious of cameras. He swiveled his chair to face me, threw back the drink, and sucked through his front teeth.

“Pretty early for vodka.” He glanced to the storage room. "I’d prefer something sweeter."

The barkeep jumped as I nearly mowed him down again.

“That the husband?," said the guy. "He can’t come back here."

"I'm not married for crissake," Sam muttered.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” My fingers played inside my bra as the bartender waited with dancing eyes. I pulled out a hundred.

He wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers. “We could get fired for this,” he said, holding the bill to the light. Buddy, that’s the least of my concerns.

With a grunt, Sam grabbed the guy by the collar and shoved him out of the storage room, shutting and locking the door behind.

Then he turned and slapped his hand on my lower back. “That’s not where you put it. Ever.” He pulled the Glock and checked the chamber, presumably to see if I was about to shoot myself.